Page 25 of The Minotaur’s Nanny Bride (Minotaur Daddies #2)

25

MAYA

I stare at the dried rirzed herb bundles hanging above my workbench, but I'm not really seeing them. My fingers move automatically, stripping leaves from stems, crushing petals into my mortar. The rhythmic grinding of pestle against stone fills the quiet shop, but it's not enough to drown out the thoughts circling my mind like hungry rodans.

"You need two more bundles of gankoya for the morning sickness tonic," I mutter to myself, trying to focus on the task.

My shop smells the same as always—earthy, green, with hints of sweet and spice mingling in the air. Sunlight filters through the front windows, catching dust motes that dance in golden beams across my wooden shelves lined with glass jars, leather pouches, and ceramic pots. Everything is exactly where it should be, meticulous and organized.

But everything feels wrong.

I reach for a jar of dried meqixste bark and accidentally knock over a small wooden toy—a carved equu with a broken leg. Ellis had grabbed it from my workbench last week, his tiny fingers surprisingly strong. I'd promised to fix it.

My throat tightens as I pick it up. "Damn it," I whisper, quickly setting it inside a drawer where I won't have to look at it.

The silence is what gets to me most. I never realized how much noise a baby makes—not just the crying, but the little coos, the breathing, the rustling. The shop used to feel peaceful. Now it's just... empty.

A customer enters, the bell above the door jingling. I straighten my shoulders and force a smile.

"Morning, Maya," Talek, one of the farmers from the outskirts, nods. "My wife's hands are cracking again from the fieldwork. Got anything?"

"Zabilla salve," I reply, reaching for a small tin on the shelf. "Works better than anything else for rough skin."

My gray eyes meet his, and I can see the moment he notices something's off. His bushy eyebrows furrow.

"You alright? Look like you haven't slept in days."

I haven't. My bed at home feels too big, too cold. I've gotten used to a small cot in a room next to Ellis's nursery, where I could hear his breathing, where Dex would poke his massive horned head in to check on both of us.

"Just busy," I lie, busying myself with wrapping the tin in paper. "Spring brings all sorts of ailments."

"Heard you were working for the Ironhoof merchant. Helping with his sister's youngling."

My hands freeze midway through tying the string. "Not anymore."

I don't elaborate, and something in my expression must warn Talek not to push. He pays, thanks me, and leaves with a concerned backward glance.

I return to my work, but the silence presses in again. I grab a knife and attack a pile of cryots, chopping the carrot-like vegetables with unnecessary force. The rhythm of the blade hitting the cutting board is almost therapeutic.

"You shouldn't have gotten so attached. You're just the nanny."

Dex's words echo in my head for the hundredth time. The practical, no-nonsense part of me—the part that got me through being disowned, that built this business from nothing—knows he's right. I was hired help. Temporary. It was a job.

Then why does it feel like I've lost my family?

I miss Ellis's weight in my arms, the way his gold eyes—just like his uncle's—would stare up at me with complete trust. I miss the triumph I felt the first time I got him to laugh, that bubbling sound that made even grumpy vendors in the market smile. I miss the way his tiny fingers would grab my silver-blonde hair, the warmth of his little body against my chest as he finally fell asleep.

And Dex... I miss his massive presence filling a room, his deep laugh that vibrated through the walls. I miss our late-night conversations about nothing and everything. I miss watching his large, capable hands fumbling with impossibly tiny baby clothes.

I set down the knife before I cut myself, realizing my vision has blurred with unshed tears.

"Enough," I scold myself, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. "This is pathetic."

But the shop feels wrong without Ellis's bassinet in the corner. My days feel wrong without planning meals for Dex, without the joy of returning to their home—to what had started to feel like our home.

I pick up a jar of fylvek grass and stare at the healing herb. Ironic that I have remedies for every physical ailment but nothing for this hollow ache in my chest.

After work, I walk the familiar route to Lyra's house, my hands buried in the pockets of my practical dress, unable to sit alone in the silence again tonight. The afternoon sun beats down on the city, warming the cobblestone streets and making the air shimmer above them. Normally, I'd appreciate the weather, the break from the morning chill that makes my joints ache as I tend my herb gardens. Today, I barely register it.

My right hand absent-mindedly rubs the distinctive scar that marks my palm—the permanent reminder of the day I chose compassion over prejudice. The price was my family's rejection, but I've never regretted it. That choice led me here, to this city where humans and minotaurs at least pretend to get along, where I built something of my own.

I pause at Lyra's gate, hearing the chaotic symphony of children's laughter spilling from the open windows. My friend has become a mother to more than just her own. Since bonding with Theron, she's embraced his children as hers, transforming a once-quiet healer's cottage into a home bursting with life.

Drawing a deep breath, I push open the gate. Before I can knock, the door swings wide, and Lyra's copper-red hair catches the sunlight as she pulls me into a fierce hug.

"You're right on time," she says, her green-gold eyes searching mine with that healer's intuition that cuts through pretense. "The children just finished their lessons."

Inside, the house buzzes with activity. Two of Theron's children chase each other through the sitting room while a third sits quietly reading. There's a basket of herbs half-sorted on the table, abandoned when I arrived.

"Sorry for interrupting your work," I gesture toward the basket.

"It's never an interruption," Lyra says, her hand resting briefly on her slightly rounded belly. "Besides, I need breaks these days."

She leads me through to the kitchen garden where we can watch the children through the window while having some semblance of privacy. It's a small, practical space filled with culinary and medicinal plants—many provided by me over the years. A space where two healers can breathe easier.

I lean against the stone wall, arms crossed tight against my chest. "How's the morning sickness?"

"Better with that gankoya tea you made. I couldn't stomach breakfast without it." Lyra pours us both cups of water from a clay pitcher. "But you didn't come to talk about my pregnancy."

The sounds of the children playing filter through the open window—shrieks of laughter, the pounding of small feet, playful arguments over whose turn it is. I close my eyes briefly, the noise piercing through me. Just last week, I'd imagined Ellis growing into that—running, playing, his little voice joining others in laughter.

"You're not okay," Lyra says quietly.

There's no judgment in her tone, just the same compassionate directness that drew me to her when we were both young healers learning our craft. She doesn't waste words or dance around truths—one of the many things that makes her an excellent healer and friend.

I don't answer. What's there to say? That I feel like I'm wandering through my familiar routines like a ghost? That the herb shop I built with my own hands after losing everything suddenly feels empty, purposeless?

I watch through the window as one of the children trips, scrapes a knee, and is immediately surrounded by siblings offering comfort. The ache in my chest grows unbearable. I long for Ellis's small hands reaching for my face, for the weight of his little body against my shoulder as he drifts to sleep. For Dex's rumbling voice reading reports in the study while I mix tonics at the kitchen table, the quiet domesticity we'd fallen into without discussion.

"Talk to him," Lyra urges, her voice gentle but firm as she follows my gaze to the children. "You can't let this go. Not when you know what's real."

I shake my head, hating the tears that well in my eyes. My hand moves automatically to brush them away—I've never been comfortable with this kind of vulnerability. I'd rather focus on practical solutions, concrete actions. Emotional wounds are messier than physical ones.

"It was always supposed to be temporary," I say, the familiar words sounding hollow even to my own ears.

"But it wasn't, was it?" Lyra asks gently.

I look down at the scar on my hand again, tracing its familiar pattern. Another moment when following my heart cost me dearly. The parallel isn't lost on me.

I swallow, the lump in my throat growing. "No. It wasn't."